We Are Equals
by Miriza
Summary: Moriarty framed Sherlock as a murderer to prove a point. At Scotland Yard everything isn t now, how it should be. The timing on from the end of Great Game.
1. Proloque

**After the pool scene. Moriarty has decided to prove Sherlock as his equal, even if it needs using extra persuasion. How well is his plan going to success? The Scotland Yard has got a new man in charge. Warnings for a character death, violence, language. English is not my mother language, so it restricts a bit my writing skills.  
><strong>

**Disclaimers: I don´t own Sherlock, I don´t own characters, all belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and BBC. I am just using them.**

**Thank you to my wonderful Beta Reader Gryptic Nymph for turning my English into readable.**

* * *

><p>Moriarty has lured them to the trap, at the swimming pool, where Carl Powers had died many years ago. Red spots continued their dancing on their bodies, including Moriarty himself's, but at the same time he didn't cease to make his noise. The irritating noise he called his talking.<p>

Moriarty called him an equal. That they were like twins, when it came to their intelligence, their morality… They couldn't compare themselves to ordinary people. "To ordinary average people like …. Let's take for an example….. John Watson here, a little irrelevant army doctor. Or Mrs. Hudson, by the way! Such a sweet old lady! They're hardly worth one single thought or one single emotion. Their only worth is as tools for a supreme goal." He should just understand it. But he will. Oh, he will. He will choose Moriarty.

Sherlock's incredible greenish blue eyes drilled into the consulting criminal, when the red light dots danced, probing him all over. "We are not." He was not like the psychopath killer in a front of him. "I have never killed anyone. I will never be like you. Inhuman."

Moriarty laughed. "How have you ever showed your humanity? Even his closest friends suspected his ability to care about them. Why don't you show them? What if he can´t prove it? What if people suddenly look at the brilliant consulting detective, whisper to each other, and turn away with the horror and anger readable on their faces as if they have seen a monster in front of them?"

Sherlock tried to figure out what his taunts meant. Moriarty was trying to confuse him. He had to find his and John´s way out from this situation, far away from this maniac and his insane talk.

He aimed his gun at Jim Moriarty´s head, and then back at the bomb vest, unsure what would happen next. He expected that this was a test. Despite the fact that his work included constant confrontations with criminals, he had managed to survive without ever killing anyone. Should he begin now? Moriarty might be a good start. But it would be a short-time solution. There was no doubt that if he didn't do something soon, he and John would be dead before he had time to think about what he has just done.

"Just think, Sherlock," Moriarty teased, "of _poor_ Mrs. Hudson, your housekeeper, alone in her house, should she meet an accident. Old ladies are so fragile and defenseless. Would you be sorry, if you miss some meals in the future?"

Sherlock blinked when the red spot stopped on his pupil, and had to turn his head away.  
>"Or would you be ready to kill, for the first time in your life, to save your dear pet?"<br>The spots disappeared from Sherlock´s body, but danced yet on John´s.  
>"What if John ceased to exist? Would you mourn? Is it possible that you are capable to feel something as trivial as mourning?"<p>

Sherlock suppressed his growing unease. "What is exactly your point?"  
>"What is your next move? Mine is this: I am threatening your little lap dog. What are you going to do to stop me?"<br>"Stop calling John a dog."

"What are you going to do? I'll give you five seconds to decide, then I make my move. I'll shoot him. That's a promise."

_One.. two.. three.. four.._

Sherlock closed his eyes. _To shoot the bomb vest…or to shoot Moriarty._ He lowered his gun and pulled the trigger.  
>There was a weak explosion, but thick smoke released to the air. It was a bluff, and Moriarty vanished into a smoke cloud, laughing like the devil.<p>

They looked at each other as the red lights disappeared. Nothing else happened. They were alone in the quiet of the ancient crime scene. Finally he broke the silence.

"Are you all right, John?"

"I'm all right, Sherlock. Are you ok?"

"Er, yes, I'm fine."

He always said so. Maybe it was true, sometimes.

"What was this all about?"

"Mmm. I don't know... It was strange... This guy is twisted. But he was after something with this. I need to think... Oh!" Sherlock paced back and forth, and then suddenly stopped.

"We have to go, to 221b Baker Street!"


	2. Where Do The Old Ladies Go?

They both ran out into the moonlit streets. At this time of day, the streets were deserted, only some lonely-and-not-exactly-sober by passers looked for their way to a home or yet another drink. Only the stars stayed bright and steady above them all. He flagged down a taxi, as easily as he always did, and after a fast drive they were back on the familiar street. John stopped to pay, but Sherlock was already sprinting to the front door. They hurried in, and then suddenly stopped.

Although it was a late night, there were lights on in the entrance hall, and the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat was open. The lights were shining inside there, too. Already this was alarming. Mrs. Hudson had a careful life style, early to bed, early up, as many older people have. They walked into Mrs. Hudson's flat. Everything seemed to be in their places, as they were supposed to be. A feeling of stagnant stillness floated in the air. But the tingling feeling of unease, that something was not as it should be, was growing inside them. The flow of normal events had already been twisted that night as Moriarty, the puppet master of distorting mind games, had manipulated the strings of his puppets and rewritten the script of the play. Mrs Hudson's bed time had gone long ago, but she wasn't anywhere in her home.

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock yelled. When no-one answered, he ran, already halfway upstairs.  
>John followed. Soon they were at the first floor, opened the door to their own flat and stepped in. The flat was dark; it was a new moon. Sherlock gripped the cold metal of the gun and turned on the switch. They had found her. Mrs Hudson lay in the middle of the floor. It was as if she had stepped in the room for some reason, stood there and then… They saw from her stillness and the position of the body that she was dead. There was a darker spot under her as if a glass of wine had spilled on the carpet. You didn't need to be an army doctor or a consulting detective to tell what it was. They didn´t say anything for a while. Usually, when Sherlock saw a fresh corpse, he made his quick and detailed investigation as soon as he was allowed. But now he just stared down at her, paralyzed. What did this mean? What in the heaven and hell had happened here? Sherlock got soon his grip back and bent down to eye the body.<p>

However, he didn't have time to make much progress, when they heard heavy footsteps and noise from the staircase. The door was pushed open and suddenly the room was filled by police officers. They recognized Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan instantly.

"Step back from the body, freak! Keep your bloody hands off it!" Donovan shouted.

"This is my flat and my corpse." Sherlock said, a little unwisely, and frowned at her.

"So it _is _yours! You admitted it yourself. Now we've got you, you psychopath!" Sally continued in her usual sweet way.

Sherlock flinched as if someone had stuck a needle into him. "Stop calling me that. I am not a psychopath," he hissed furiously.

"Sergeant Donovan. Let me..." Lestrade interrupted her and continued gently to Sherlock.  
>"We got an announcement from your neighbor some time ago. There was shouting, and after that he heard a gunshot. Because you have, er, an inclination, to shoot in your flat, I thought that it was nothing serious- although that's not advisable, Sherlock. But we had to come and look it over. But what is this? Can you explain it to us? You usually have good theories. "<p>

"I don't know yet, Lestrade. We've just come in and seen this. I haven't had time to form any theories. "

"The neighbour heard you, you were at home."

"Who said that? Which neighbour?" John interrupted, but nobody paid any attention to him. John started to feel very uncomfortable.

"Lestrade, let me check the corpse," Sherlock suggested.

"No! You step away from the corpse and _I_will check it!" Anderson ordered Sherlock. He emerged from the blackness of the room around him.

"You? You couldn't find yourself in a dark room." Sherlock said calmly.

"You are a suspect, Sherlock", Lestrade sighed, sounding apologetic. "I cannot let you go near the body. Could you step away from it, please? Anderson, do your job – be thorough."

"That's stupid!" John started to shout with pure frustration. He felt totally exhausted, he needed sleep. His life had just been threatened by a maniac, and now this. He couldn't handle this calmly and rationally, he couldn't be civilized. He didn't know how it would be possible to handle this well. "He has always helped you! You would be totally lost without him! How COULD you suspect him as a murderer! Don´t you… Don´t you even want to know what we have just been through?"

More policemen filled the room. They all want to see Sherlock crumble. _What a bunch of vultures_, John thought bitterly. They didn't listen, they didn't believe what had just happened to him and Sherlock. This was Moriarty´s plan. He framed Sherlock as a murderer. Even Lestrade had swallowed it. He heard Lestrade giving orders to the forensics team in the distance.

"Lestrade, do you really think that I could do such a thing? I wouldn´t kill anyone. It's not my area. This is a setup. How many times have I helped you? Lestrade! You have to listen to me. Let me show you." Sherlock tried to talk calmly, shouting wouldn't help him.

"I am so sorry, Sherlock. I don't really know what to believe. I just know what this looks like. And I cannot make any exceptions, even with you."

"Oh, I understand too well. You are worried about your career. If you let a _criminal_like me to look at the crime scene, it wouldn´t look good on your record. Your superiors would mark you down." Sherlock said sardonically.

"This isn't helping you."

"Listen, Lestrade, we just came in. Don't you see? We still have our coats on, and we came here by a taxi. John, do you have a receipt for payment?"

"I am sorry, Sherlock, I didn´t take it, I was trying to follow you. John said apologetically. He felt terrible. Just one piece of paper, and they would have been cleared. It would have proven that they weren't here, when Mrs. Hudson was shot."

"I'll check the taxi, I'll ask after the driver," Lestrade said.

"This is very clear," Anderson explained. "You have coats on because you were going to hide the body. You sat on the sofa. There might have been an argument, and then this psych- I mean, _Sherlock _grabbed the gun and shot her in cold blood. Psychopaths don't need a reason to do that." Anderson seemed very proud of his analysis.

They all waited for what Lestrade would do next. He sighed again wearily, but he couldn´t make any exceptions. "Have you found the murder weapon? Check everything, him too."  
>They found the weapon quickly from Sherlock´s clothes, and the powder burn from his fingers. He had fired, but not here. And the timing was perfect.<p>

"Take him! Handcuffs! He is dangerous." Donovan ordered. John was frozen when he heard how Sergeant Donovan and Anderson talked about his friend. Why didn't they listen to him? And why didn´t Lestrade interrupt them?

"Lestrade! You know me! Moriarty is behind this. Give me time, so I can prove it. This is ridiculous, even from you! You cannot be serious." Sherlock was shouting now but without effect.

Two policemen grasped Sherlock and forced the handcuffs onto his wrists. John watched, stunned, and felt more helpless than he had ever felt in his life.

"You are under arrest." It was Sergeant Donovan. She seemed very pleased. This was just as she had predicted. As she had hoped.

"Give me time! Don't do this."

"Time to run away, to disappear or what? I knew that something like this was going to happen. I told you." Donovan said.  
>John took a last look into Sherlock´s eyes before they pulled him out into the dark staircase. He looked baffled just for a second, then he vanished. John stayed watching after them.<p>

"By the way, John, you should be at the Scotland Yard at nine o´clock tomorrow morning. I have some questions to you." Lestrade said before he left too. "And you have to find some place for the rest of night. You cannot stay here. I hope that you understand."

"Yes, I know. As if you need to remind me." Understand? John decided not to even try.


	3. They Are Lying To You

John Watson woke up early next morning at Sarah´s home. He couldn´t stay at 221b Baker Street, but besides, he wouldn't want to. How could he? So he phoned Sarah. Sarah sounded sleepy and a little edgy, but when John explained briefly what had happened, she invited John to stay the night – or what was left of it. Sarah gave him the familiar sofa in her living room to sleep on for a couple of hours. She was very sorry; suddenly she wanted to comfort him, to make him feel better, but John just wasn´t in that mood.

"Thank you, Sarah, but not now, maybe it's better to get some sleep."

Sarah agreed, she was tired too. Getting some sleep was easier said than done, but finally he fell into a restless sleep.

John had been asked to be at Scotland Yard at nine o´clock, but it was just half past eight when he stepped over the police station threshold. Silently, he wondered why the police didn´t arrest him too. Maybe they supposed that he hadn´t been personally involved of the death of Mrs. Hudson. Should he feel grateful about that? No, there was no reason for that. He went to the duty officer and told him he had an appointment with Lestrade. He was surprised, therefore, when he was told to go to Detective Inspector Dimmock's office.

John frowned, but obeyed. He knocked on Dimmock's door. He didn´t like him very much and he predicted that after the following conservation he would like him less. Dimmock disliked Sherlock. In fact, Lestrade was the only one at the Scotland Yard who got along with Sherlock Holmes. Without Lestrade Sherlock wouldn´t ever work for Scotland Yard. And this was how they showed their gratitude for all the difficult, no, preposterously absurd cases which Sherlock has solved for them… Without Sherlock Holmes Scotland Yard would be so clueless, with all the innovative criminals on London's streets. John felt his anger rising once more, but he ignored it. For now.

"Sit down. It's good to see you," DI Dimmock smiled to John.

"The feeling isn´t mutual. I came because I had to, it's not like I have a choice," John answered sourly. "Where's Lestrade? I thought I would be with him today. _He_ asked me to come."

"I'll be asking the questions. But because I want to show my good will, and because Lestrade took the suspect under custody, I suppose you have a right to know. The case was given to me because he is a friend of the suspect. He cannot keep his emotions out from this, so I was considered to be more objective. In fact Lestrade took a couple of days leave to relax a little. I am in charge here."

"Really? You don´t like Sherlock Holmes. How is your antipathy objective?" John didn't like this a bit. He wasn't in a cooperative mood, not with Detective Inspector Dimmock. But he had to try, if he wanted to help Sherlock. He wasn't really aiding Sherlock by making the investigating police officer mad. So he bit his tongue to stop himself saying something more insulting.

"Now, I would like to hear your version about the events of last night," Dimmock asked. He smiled again. John Watson didn´t see why. He had no reason to.

But John Watson told him the truth. He told Dimmock everything that had happened. How Moriarty had kidnapped him, how he'd forced him to dress in an explosive device and used him as a trap for Sherlock. He spoke briefly about what had happened at the pool, how Moriarty had implied that Mrs. Hudson would be in danger, the fake explosion and how when Moriarty had finally left, they'd rushed to the Baker Street and found Mrs. Hudson there – dead. Then the police had arrived.

"You can find the taxi we used, I'm telling the truth."

Dimmock smiled again – not very pleasantly. What was he smiling for?

"You know what, Mr Watson? It's a thrilling story. Did you invent it by yourself? I think that Mr. Holmes has helped you a little. He has a very good imagination, otherwise he wouldn´t invent all his colourful theories. I am now going to remind you that I've figured out what _really_ happened last night. But of course you already know what that... "

"Excuse me, but have you already questioned him?"

"He is a psychopath. He can lie so well that we _normal_ people cannot notice the difference. At this moment it is a waste of time. Of course we have to take his statement later, but currently it is completely useless. But I can tell you how all this happened: Your flatmate disturbed the public peace of night by firing a gun, which I'm told he does often, when his boredom started to overwhelm him. Already this habit means he can't walk free. He needs serious treatment. Anyway, his landlady Mrs Hudson woke up (as his neighbour did also, who finally called the police) and asked him to stop. He wasn't in a co-operative mood, an argument followed and culminated in Sherlock finally shooting his landlady in cold-blood. Probably his last cases have been too much for his inner balance. I'm just speculating what happened next, but you probably decided finally to come to see what your flatmate was doing and found out that he'd killed your landlady. Maybe he threatened you, or maybe because you think he's your friend for some reason, but you promised to help him to hide the body or at least confirm his story, which he invented to cover the tracks of his crime. And so you have done. But there is no need for you to stay loyal to him, he cannot threaten you now. But we were in time to find the evidence: gun powder from his fingers, and his gun recently used. So…"

"Of course he has used his gun! I told you that he shot the explosive vest at the pool."

"Or that is how you have decided to explain it. You should really have invented a more believable story."

"One thing, inspector Dimmock," John tried again, "Sherlock cared for Mrs Hudson. He wouldn't ever harm or hurt her. He is not what you think he is."

"Psychopaths cannot care for anybody. "

John Watson stared speechless at Detective Inspector Dimmock. He was genuinely speechless. Dimmock had made his mind up and John Watson couldn't say anything which will change the narrow-minded police officer's view. John couldn't understand how Dimmock had gotten the case instead of Lestrade. John´s instincts told him that there was something rotten here... Someone powerful wanted to give Dimmock a chance. A big chance. Because this would become a scandal as soon as it was revealed in the newspapers. The Scotland Yard´s trusted consulting detective revealed as the cold-blooded murderer of a sweet old lady. He thought suddenly the rage of the public. This was an incredible lie, but how could John prove it? He was nobody here, a passer-by, a witness, whose statements nobody listened. He had no evidence to convince them. He didn't have the brain of Sherlock Holmes. How ironic. He should help the detective, but he needed_ Sherlock _to help _him_. That was what he couldn´t get. The words of Moriarty echoed inside his head.

"Good job, Moriarty", John mumbled.

"Excuse me?" Dimmock asked.

"Uh, I just wondered, would it be possible for me to see him?"

"I cannot allow it just now. Maybe later," Dimmock smiled snidely.

"I should have known that. How stupid to even ask," John Watson said and left the room, because otherwise he would have hit the smiling Inspector. It was a better option to leave. At least he slammed the door loudly.

As soon as John left the room, Detective Inspector Dimmock's mobile phone rang. He sighed and answered. He knew with whom he was talking before he even looked at his mobile. He didn´t dare to think how the man knew that John Watson had left just thirty seconds before. It was as if he had been in the room, watching.

"Tell me," He heard the male voice ordering in its Irish accent.

"Everything is making progress, as you wished, Mr Moriarty. We have taken care of Sherlock Holmes,we followed your advice exactly… John Watson left recently, furious, as you can imagine, but there isn't much he can do. We can always accuse him of assisting the murder if he begins to be a problem."

"Good. The little ex-army doctor isn´t an issue. His bark is worse than his bite, as they say. But don't make any extra moves without informing me first. I don´t like it if people I own try to overuse their brains. Let our detective think over his situation properly. At least he has time to do it… He isn´t very busy at this moment, is he? Being busy all time – that's the problem nowadays – never time to think about their life situation in detail. But Sherlock has this luxury now. He should be thankful."

"Yes, sir, he should. I am afraid he won´t be. One other thing, sir- Watson claimed that they drove in a taxi that night. What if Lestrade or Watson or someone else found out the cabbie? "

"No reason to be worried. The cabbie is not your problem. No-one will find out anything I don't want them to find. As for you, check all the files of the case carefully and fix them, if necessary. They have to be clean. And… have a nice day!"

Even Moriarty´s voice made Dimmock shiver. He was happy that James Moriarty wasn´t on his track, at least, but he wasn't in a much better position. Although he didn´t get along with Sherlock Holmes, he still wouldn´t frame him- or anyone- if he didn't have to. Dimmock has considered himself always as a decent policeman, who just wanted to build a career on his own achievements. He had admired Lestrade, an old school police officer. But Dimmock's career hadn't progressed as he had wished, despite of all the good predictions. Despite, what Sherlock had told him, long ago, as it seemed at this moment. He forgot the memory at once, he didn´t want to remember it now, when the man in question had been_ imprisoned_, on his orders. Dimmock just wanted a chance, and Moriarty had emerged from nothingness and offered it to him – in exchange for just a favour. Dimmock hadn´t hesitated. The choice wasn´t too difficult. A tenacious voice in the back of his mind reminded Dimmock how the consulting detective had given all credit to Dimmock after solving the case with the Black Lotus. Dimmock deleted the memory again, angrily.

He didn´t understand how Moriarty could have such an influence even inside Scotland Yard– or maybe he did. Moriarty owned someone in a high position, who must have arranged for Dimmock to get Sherlock´s case and Lestrade to go away for a while. Dimmock didn't know how Moriarty managed to move Lestrade away from the case, and he surely didn´t want to know. The less he knew the safer he was. Besides, Moriarty might be a useful alliance. Moriarty was right also about John Watson. The guy didn´t make a big impression to Dimmock. The little ex-army doctor couldn´t harm Moriarty´s plan. Dimmock daydreamed about how Moriarty would reward him for his services he did for him- currently with Sherlock, and in the future with other problems which bothered Moriarty. What if Lestrade´s superiors discovered his acquaintance with a psychopathic killer? It didn't sounded likely, but you never know…

As if it mattered what happened to Sherlock! He was too cocky. He has deserved a little lesson. This feeling of power over someone´s life was new and so refreshingly enjoyable that it frightened him. Dimmock didn´t give a second thought to the fact he was helping to destroy another man´s career and life, or that a old lady has been killed. That he was co-operating with a dangerous criminal.

Dimmock started to work with the files in front of him and write a report. He was usually very punctual with paper work and this was important to check properly. There could not be any flaws, any traces, wherefrom someone could find something dubious. Lestrade would return and would surely want to check these files thoroughly, so he couldn't be too careful. He didn´t want to make Mr Moriarty unhappy.

A ballistics report was ready. The bullet has been traced to Sherlock´s weapon - or was it Dr John Watson´s, the army doctor? It didn't matter. Sherlock´s fingerprints had been found on the same weapon. Traces of gun powder were found on his fingers, so he had shot it recently. The gun's real owner wasn't important. Tests from the blood spots on the carpet of Mr Holmes´ living room would come later, but it was very probable that they belonged to Mrs Hudson. Then there was the mortuary report, written by Dr Hooper from St Bart's. Dimmock has noticed Molly´s unexplainable attraction to Sherlock, but even she couldn´t argue against an autopsy. The cause of death was too obvious. There was no doubts about it. A nice shot from 5,5" straight to her chest, where her heart had beaten warmly. All the evidence was so clearly pointing to Sherlock that he would need a miracle to get free. Molly wasn't a miracle maker. She was harmless. The statements of two witnesses; the neighbour, who had been kept nameless in case of Sherlock taking revenge and who was Moriarty´s trusted man; and John Watson, the suspect´s flat mate. He wasn´t very cooperative and he didn´t confirm the evidence or the other suspect´s story. He could be considered as a possible accessory, so he wasn´t a reliable witness and his statement was not essential because of his close relationship to the suspect. Instead the neighbour´s statement was strong, in light of what was already known about the DNA evidence. A statement fromthe suspect had not yet been taken. He had been too busy, but he would make time. It would be fun. A knock on the door interrupted him.

"Yes?" Sergeant Donovan emerged from the doorstep.

"Sir, there is a reporter asking to get an interview with you for the Hudson case. She wants to ask some questions. Should I say you are busy?"

"No, ask her in. We have to keep the press happy, haven´t we?"

Sally stayed still in the door, as if something was bothering her.

"Is there something else, Sergeant?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade asked us to keep the press away from this case. He didn´t want any publicity for it."

"Sergeant Donovan. I am in charge now. Lestrade isn´t even on duty at the moment. What instructions he gave you last night don't apply any more. You follow my orders now. The public has a full right to know about our successful police work. This is good publicity for us, and we have to take full advantage from it. We are solving a brutal homicide efficiently. The public´s trust towards Scotland Yard will strengthen. We have stopped a possible serial killer in time."

"Yes, sir."

Sally Donovan frowned when she left the room. She informed the journalist her boss was waiting for her. _Her boss. _No, that didn´t taste right in her mouth. Her boss was Lestrade and definitely not this young _sod_. Lestrade had given her a clear order to keep journalists away from this case, but Dimmock was giving them an interview. Dimmock was acting like head of their department. It was too early to talk about a serial killer. There was still no evidence supporting this. They hadn't interrogated Sherlock Holmes yet, that much she knew, however much Dimmock talked about a serial killer. There had been a possibility, Sally herself had predicted, that it might happen one day, but the investigation about Mrs Hudson´s case was still open. Now, suddenly, when her prediction was seemingly fulfilled, Sally felt unsure. The bewildered look on his face bothered her. It wasn´t the uncaring look of a psychopathic killer, which she had expected, or a look of a man who has just shot down an elderly woman. He looked like he had just come in and found a surprise body in the middle of his living room, as he said. She wasn´t as satisfied as she thought she would be. Even for her, it was a little difficult to believe that the arrogant self-made detective has murdered his own landlady. Besides, all these strange things had started to take place at the police station. Lestrade would lose all credibility if his favourite consulting detective was revealed as a killer. Sally Donovan hasn´t thought about that before, but now she was worried. What if Detective Inspector Dimmock was trying to get Lestrade´s position? Sally Donovan didn´t like the prospect.


	4. Today The Night Descended Early

Sally almost collided with Molly, who rushed suddenly in front of her.

"Oh… Sally, hi," she smiled, seeming even more unsure than normal. "Uh, I wonder if you know about where the suspects are kept. I mean, I didn´t seen him there… maybe he's some other place than usual? I really don´t know who to ask, the guards couldn´t tell me anything. He is not where he should be."

"What are you saying, Molly?" Sally tried to clarify.

"I mean, I just brought the mortuary report to Detective Inspector Dimmock, I knew that he was arrested and I thought that maybe he needed something. It's about a murder, I saw the body, but it is so difficult to believe. After everything he has done for the police… I just cannot believe it... I went to see him, but the guards didn´t know anything about him, and they say he is not there. It is a little odd, don´t you think?"

"You are talking about Sherlock", Sally finally understood. "He is not in a holding cell?"

"No! Have you let him go?"

"Not as far as I know." Sally finished. "I am sorry, but I really cannot help you with this. Excuse me, I have work to do."

When she returned to the office, Anderson smirked to Sally behind his desk.

"You were right. Now the freak showed his real nature. Soon they'll all hear about it."

"Would you just mind to concentrate to your work? I assume that you have some, I know I have," Sally frowned at Anderson, who wasn´t sure what he'd said wrong.

When Sergeant Sally Donovan´s duty was finally over, she rushed to the nearest safe-feeling park to call for Lestrade. Lestrade has advised not to call at home, because it could be traced more easily. They had an arrangement, that she would report him daily.

"Hello, Sally."

"Yes, sir. I have something for you. First, someone has leaked the case to the press. DI Dimmock gave an interview for The Sunshine´s reporter this afternoon against your recommendations. Second, they haven´t questioned him yet, although Dimmock has worked on his file. Third, I saw Molly at the station today, she has tried to visit him, but she couldn´t have found Mr Holmes. Didn´t you put him in the cells?"

"Yes, I did, against my better judgement. He's not there anymore? For what reason would Dimmock have transferred him? I don´t like this. I wish that I was there."

* * *

><p>All was dark, silent and chilled. It wasn´t even possible to see his own hand- though, of course, being handcuffed it was more tricky to observe it anyway. Hours had gone passed, so it was probably the evening. It wasn´t really so easy to keep himself focused on things like time when he had to sit alone in the dark on a hard bed. There wasn´t anything to do or to look at, except wait. <em>Think. Think…uh, food?<em> Under these unexpected circumstances, he should get meals and also water or something, but these luxuries didn´t seem to belong as a natural part of his cell. He didn´t usually take so much notice of such trivialities like food and drink, but it would be nice _sometimes_ to get some… To survive…

For some reason, he hoped that he had kept an eye on him, though he usually despised it. There was a camera, an infrared camera, but was anyone paying any attention to it? He couldn´t explain to himself why having someone watch over him was reassuring.

Lestrade wouldn´t approve this, so much was sure. But why he didn´t come and stop this, and take him away? He remembered that Lestrade has asked John to come, so he could ask questions about the case. The case of poor Mrs Hudson. He now felt numb with unexpected grief for Mrs. Hudson. People could disapprove of him in peace, they did it anyway. What difference would this make? John was the only person he wanted to see, why hadn´t John insisted on meeting him? His throat felt dry, his body started to stiffen, and the silence made ears to ring. He could handle cold, darkness, handcuffs and bleeding wounds, this was nothing new, but his brain would need stimulation before long. This cannot be legal.

* * *

><p>First it was all normal, as normal as it could be when you were arrested for murder. Lestrade put him in a holding cell, the regret glimmered in his eyes, but he did it still (personally, as if he didn´t trust anybody else to do it). He had to do it as a police officer. But the handcuffs were removed, his cell was warm, he had a little window, a decent bed with a blanket and the lights on. He was exhausted after what had happened in the last few days, and he went to bed and fell asleep after a couple of seconds. He didn´t have a reason to stay awake any more, and he hadn´t slept for days because of the Moriarty's game, which had occupied him. It was thrilling, he had to admit it, he hadn't been bored, but there were also people´s lives at stake, who he had to save. Whatever John or anybody thought about him, he cared about these people enough that he didn´t want them die because of him, because of Moriarty´s twisted game. When Moriarty detonated the bomb strapped to the old woman and killed twelve people, it wasn´t because of him. He was shocked, yes, but he didn´t blame himself for it, he had done everything he could to prevent it. He had solved the puzzle in time. He didn´t enjoy bloodshed. It was all because of Moriarty.<p>

He was in a deep sleep when he was shook harshly to wake up. He saw two unknown men, one stocky and one thinner, in police uniforms who had invaded his cell. They dragged him up, forced his hands behind his back and clicked handcuffs back onto his wrists without saying a word, before he managed to react. He was sleepy and didn´t follow what they were doing. But the disturbing question was, why?

"What are you doing? Who are you?"

Sherlock found himself suddenly lying on the hard floor, tasting metal in his mouth.

"Shut up! You just shut up, if you don´t want another reminder, psycho! And stand up, what are you lying there, you lazy scum! You're coming with us!" yelled the stockier of the two.

The room was spinning when he slowly got up. Blood trickled from his lip, and his anger rose inside. He was sure that Lestrade's wouldn´t accept this, not even towards the worst serial killer in the world, not to mention towards him.

"I am not coming anywhere. You are not the police."

"Are you in any position to refuse?" The robust man didn´t deny that they were fake. Instead the thinner one kept his arms in position, whilst the other punched Sherlock hard to his diaphragm, which made him not only wordless, but breathless as well.

They almost carried him out from his cell, and from the holding cell to a corridor. They walked to the end of the greyish white corridor to the locked door. After opening the door they started to descend the stairs to the bottom. Another door, another corridor. This was like a rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. But this didn´t seem to be a fairy tale. Sherlock started to suspect that this end would be unhappy.

"Are you taking me to the interrogation?" Sherlock tried once again. The only response he got was another hard hit to his face. Great. His nose started to bleed this time.

"Didn´t I tell you to keep your big mouth closed? Some people learn slowly."

Finally they were at their destination. There was a control room first, like a guardian room. A bored guard sit there reading Tex Willers.

"Hey, you! Wake up! You got work to do. This one," they pushed Sherlock forward, "keep an eye on him."

"Are you kidding me, Dick?" The man said behind his comics. "I get paid when I _don´t_ look."

"Of course. But now, he needs a room. Could you book him in?" Dick said smirking cheerfully. "He gets full board. "

"Right, here are the keys."

They opened another door. Another corridor, heavy grey doors on both side of it. It was grey, dirty and had fluorescent lamps. How monotonous. One of lamps hummed irritatingly. The men walked to the last door at the back of the corridor, opened it and pushed Sherlock in.

"This is your new room. Not too big, but intimate. I hope you enjoy it. Make yourself at home." They threw Sherlock forcefully to a bunk and left.

Sherlock lay still on the bunk, waiting for the men to come back, but they were gone. He rose to sit and take a better look at his new surroundings. There wasn´t much to look at. It was a small room, greyish white, with dirty walls, no windows and a hard narrow bed. That was all, except old dry smudges decorated on the floor and on the wall. Sherlock froze as he recognized a rust coloured spot, which was definitely dried blood. How was this cell in Scotland Yard? There had to be some rational explanation. He was going to find it out. Thinking was what made him feel safe. They'd left the handcuffs on. Did they forget? He remembered the strange joke the men had… a full board… got paid when he _didn´t_ look… at what? Was it something to do with these dried spots?

Then the darkness descended. In a little while he noticed that the cell wasn´t so warm any more. The temperature had dropped. Now he started to feel really tired, but it was difficult to sleep, handcuffed in this cold, hungry and thirsty, with no real bed to use, but he decided to try. Darkness really didn´t bother him so much, he was too used to all kinds of discomfort and pain done by himself as well as criminals, but the uncertainty of his situation made him restless. He began to get the picture, what 'full board' had meant. It meant… nothing, nothing at all… They were only trying to scary him with their meaningless pranks. This was nothing. He had to ignore it.


	5. A Morning Out Follows A Night Out

A new chapter added. Nothing very dramatic happens here. John spent a ´relaxing´ night out, but next morning isn´t exatly so relaxing. Reading news can worsen your headache - and you don´t learn this from medical.

Thank you for your interests and reading.

Betad. All mistakes are mine.

* * *

><p>John Watson walked the streets without really hearing the noisy city around him; with the midday traffic humming, or noticing people; whom he hardly let pass. He didn't know where he was going. Usually he would go to 221b Baker Street, but now it didn't tempt him. He didn't even know if he was allowed to return to his home – to<em> their<em> home. Somehow he forgot to ask Dimmock when he was allowed to return – if he was interested in doing so. Before that he could stay at Sarah's apartment, but he couldn't continue so forever. At this moment he didn't want to go to some particular place. He was too furious at Dimmock… At all of them, collectively. As if they were incapable of seeing through this great bloody bluff which Moriarty had made up for them. The consulting criminal was surely tracking him now, laughing at him like he would at a practical joke.

Sherlock was so right about people – just a bunch of idiots. Specifically one particular department of Scotland Yard, run by one DI Dimmock. At this moment, John Watson didn't remind himself that Sherlock had once counted him as one of those idiots. It was like another lifetime, when they had just met. After their first encounter everything changed in John's life, and now someone was trying to mess with it, trying so hard to take it away from him. It made him furious. He needed to go to somewhere, maybe talk with someone. He walked through busy London seeking for a quieter spot of the hectic city. How long he walked. He was tired. He wanted a place to sit down and calm himself. He needed a drink or two. It would stop the drumming sound in his head.

The pubs were still open- he didn't go to pubs often, it wasn't his habit, especially after he had met Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't stand pubs, which were full of ordinary average people with their everyday sorrows and worries, which they carried with them like old clothes, which were too easy to observe and deduce. It was like they all were naked, open to his observations, and it was almost intolerable for him. Observing the pathetically drunken people, who were more incapable to hide their secrets than when they were sober. Typically there would always be a moron, who seemed to specialise in disturbing people, who took Sherlock as his target, invaded his space, trying to insult him. Or then they tried to make innuendos to him. It was the same. As if he had asked them to come. It all was too intolerable, so the detective didn't spend his time in pubs. And when he didn't go, John didn't either. Besides, Sherlock wasn't a drinker. He had addictions, but drinking didn't seem to be one of them.

John stepped in the nearest pub on a quiet street. The noise of heavy traffic from the main streets faded. The dark place was almost empty, with brown furnishings and a dartboard in the corner. At this time of afternoon the place was almost deserted, only occupied by some lonely men and a younger couple. He went straight to the bar without noticing a man in a brown coat and jeans who came in after him.

John ordered a pint for himself, and chose a lonely corner table. The man with the brown coat chose another a table near a window, carried the Daily Mail_,_a nd a small pint with him, keeping his eye on John.

John tried to forget himself and his life situation. As if it were possible. He was a war veteran with a psychosomatic limp, with an uncertain work situation, almost all of his past friendships gone. Many of his war-time friends were dead or didn´t keep in contact – or maybe it was him who didn't bother. He had only Mike Stanford, plus his currently unclear relationship with his boss Sarah. His landlady killed and his closest thing to a friend, Sherlock Holmes, accused as a murderer. But just for a moment he wanted to forget, although he knew from his experience that drinking didn´t ever work very well with him and afterwards he felt more mentally than physically awful. But at this moment all that didn´t really matter. He didn´t want to worry about it.

He thought about calling Lestrade, to get a companion and to talk with someone, to whom he really didn´t need to explain everything from the beginning and to get back an astounded and amused gaze of misunderstanding. He had Lestrade´s number in his mobile, he never knew when it would be needed, and now he was glad he had it. It took some time before Lestrade answered, and John thought that he wasn´t going to answer at all, but finally he heard a familiar voice

"Hello? John?"

"Yes, it's me, John. I've been at Scotland Yard this morning, but you weren´t there. Lestrade, I really should talk with you. Have you time to come?"

"I don´t know. We shouldn't be seen together."

"What would it matter? You're not on duty, I heard."

"You're right. Where are you?"

John mentioned the pub's name and address.

John had just started his second beer when Lestrade arrived. He hadn't shaved, John noticed.

"Good to see you, Lestrade."

"I'm still not sure about us meeting, I'm not certain it's a good idea, but I needed to get out. I've been at home too much."

"Lestrade, what is going on at the police station? Why did Dimmock get Sherlock's case? I was just questioned by him, and it was useless, he was talking total nonsense. He didn't even let me see Sherlock and wasn't interested in my testimony. He had already made his mind up about what had happened. He didn't listen me at all."

"This is out of my hands. Now I am a civilian, just like you. My opinions don´t matter at all at this moment. The evidences against him are strong. But if I find the tiniest crack in Dimmock's report, then I will grab it."

"Moriarty wants Sherlock in trouble. This man is capable of planning and organising almost anything. He has given the case to Dimmock. He is going to label him a psychopath, and then nobody will listen to him, whatever he tries to say. There has to be something you can do! You are a police officer. If he gets fair treatment, he would have some possibility of vindication."

"I'm keeping an eye on it. I have a trusted person on the inside. She has done some research on her own, and found out, that doubtful things are happening at my department…I have worked with some especially difficult homicides, and I asked Sherlock to help me. He suspected, that the murders have some connection, although he couldn´t say yet, what it is. Dimmock has closed the cases now, as if they are clear, although they are far from that. And I cannot do a thing. I don´t reveal details, I shouldn´t talk about this to you at all, but I suspect, that someone just want us out of his way."

"Could he be Moriarty?"

"I don´t know. I don´t know anything about this guy. If he is such a criminal mastermind, he had managed keep himself on the background excellently."

"He is good with that. He disguised himself even from Sherlock." John sighed in disbelief. "This isn't going well."

"I trust you, John. I got a good impression of you the first time I saw you. Self-pity isn't your style. I will call you at once when I have something more concrete for you. I won´t let you down. And I think by now you can use my first name. Now, how about a game?"

"I don´t know, Greg. I don´t think that I can concentrate on it." John stared to his glass, as if he had forgotten its existence.

"Then I insist. I haven't anything better to do, and you asked me here. Come on, you can start. I can buy the next round."

* * *

><p>Next morning:<p>

Lestrade had managed somehow to cheer his mood that evening. They played one game, another, and then three. He couldn´t remember how he finally crawled to Sarah´s, but he had likely taken a taxi, and he now found himself on the sofa in Sarah´s living room, wrapped in a thick blue shawl.

The memory of last night ached in John´s head when he went to the breakfast table. The smell of coffee, fresh toast, jam and oranges would have raised his mood on any other morning but this. John poured coffee into the mug, took some toast with butter and jam and ate them, without tasting anything. It wasn´t only because of last night, and he knew it. He mixed his hangover with his bad feelings, which he had succeeded to press behind his consciousness just for one evening. In the morning they redoubled their force as for a punishment for yesterday's fun… John didn't have an appetite but he tried to eat, if not for himself, but because of the effort Sarah had put in. He almost hoped that Sarah thought he had lost his appetite because of the 0hangover. But Sarah wasn't so easily fooled.

"Sarah, did I do something stupid last night?"

"No… You came by a taxi. You use a lot of taxis. Can you afford them?"

"Uh, I didn´t think about it… I am so used to them."

"You just went to bed… Well, almost."

"Almost?"

"You felt a little sick. But… it's all right. I cleaned it up. I just hope that it won´t become a habit."

"I am terribly sorry, Sarah. I promise… I'm not usually like this."

Sarah looked at him sadly. "John, you don't really need to come to work now… We can get another doctor… We understand perfectly, if you don't…"

"I have to do something _normal_. I just have to keep myself busy."

"Couldn´t Lestrade help you?"

"He tried his best, but he is off work, and besides I am not sure if he fully believed in Sherlock´s innocence. All the evidence points to him. Besides, there is something strange going on at the police station, I am sure about it."

The TV buzzed in the background, the morning news had just began. John glimpsed lazily at the morning newspapers… All the same- troubles with the world economy, the weather will be fine, cloudy, not much rain, until …on _the__ Daily__ Mail._

_A brutal murder occurred the night before last in Baker Street, Central London …_

John´s jaw dropped. What….?

_Mrs Hudson, 74, who rented the spare rooms of her house to gain an income, was found dead by the police early in the morning. A neighbour, who wished to remain anonymous, was alerted to the tragedy by the sound of a gunshot. Her lodger, who works as a self-made private detective, was arrested shortly afterwards, the murder weapon found in his possession. The suspect, Sherlock Holmes, is known for his brilliant deductive skills, but also for his eccentric, antisocial and unpredictable behaviour. The police is sure to come under question for allowing mr Holmes to assist on many of their cases, at the request of the well respected Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. It is unsurprising that the suspect´s ability to solve crimes is considerable, perhaps he owed this to the fact he was so familiar to criminal state of mind, as we have seen now. There is a strong possibility that Holmes is psychopathic, and if he is set free, he could repeat his deed again. The Guardian asked Detective Inspector Dimmock, who took over the case from Detective Inspector Lestrade, what he thought._

An interview of DI Dimmock followed, Dimmock smirking self-satisfied in his picture.

"_It is plausible that the suspect's state of mind needs further examination… If these suspicions are confirmed, then it is certain that he will be sent not to ordinary prison, but to a closed and strictly controlled institute for the criminally insane. There have been speculations for years among police officers about the suspect's mental state, but the police's cooperation with him has continued. I can say for sure that it will stop now."_

There was also a picture of Sherlock Holmes.

It was all in news. In the Daily Mail, so meanly written, with so much detail and disgusting innuendos about his so-called 'psychopathic tendencies', dangerous and antisocial mannerisms… Lestrade wouldn´t have given permission for the case to be leaked to the press, so who would? DI Dimmock, probably, it would help his career onward –and Moriarty would destroy his enemy´s reputation.

It would be so convenient, the press telling only the truth their readers wanted, the truth hiding behind a big stinking lie. There was the picture of Sherlock Holmes and soon every single little-minded citizen, by-passer, cab-driver (oh, his precious cabs), passenger of public transport would know who Sherlock Holmes was, a famous murderer and a psychopath. This was a horror story for mindless people.

He thought something like this would happen, but he had never imagined how it would feel, when it was suddenly in front of him in the middle of morning coffee and toast, in the nice sunny living room of his boss. His friend was the main topic on the pages of the press, which hadn´t been interested in writing about his achievements, about all the cases he has solved successfully.

"John…" Sarah started, unsure how to continue or to finish. She had seen the article too. She didn't believe it, but she was also worried about John.

But that was enough for him. He knew what he would do next. He wasn't escaping through his work or Sarah or a pub any more. Yes, even his own work felt like an escape at this moment. He would go back to his -_their_ - home to see if he could do something there. He had to return there some time, and now had the moment come. Moriarty wouldn't win. John Watson would take his life back.

"Sarah, I will call you. I'll see you later. I really have to go home. I feel I'll think better there."

John couldn´t help but smile at the difference of the words: feel – think. Sherlock wouldn't use them together… He felt an unexplained emptiness inside him. He was returning to a cold home.


	6. A Bad Police And A Bad Police

**Finally I got this ready for publishing. I have written this mostly before series 2, so Sally Donovan is a bit of ooc, considering the events of The Reichenbach Fall.**

**Finally DI Dimmock decided to interrogate Sherlock. But as a decent police officer, he wanted also to take care of his wellbeing.**

**I don´t know, if in this chapter is much to warn about, but there are mentions of some nakedness and really minor amount of violence.**

* * *

><p>At the police station, Detective Inspector Dimmock had decided that it was high time to meet the suspect. He had finished his coffee and had read the morning post and newspapers. The Daily Mirror had published some great pictures. He looked very presentable, and the article was good. Moriarty sent him a text. He had read the morning papers too:<p>

"_Lovely picture. You didn´t look bad either. Front page, not bad. Isn´t it time to ask Sherlock some questions?"_

His superior had also asked for the paperwork of Mrs Hudson's case, so he couldn't ignore it any longer. He asked for the suspect to be brought up to the interrogation room. This could become fun, after all. He called his two underlings in.

"It's time to question the suspect. But before that, make sure he doesn't smell."

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't get a breakfast. He hadn´t eaten in so many days, first because of the game with Moriarty and now because <em>they<em> didn´t bring him anything. He would also like to get his hands free from handcuffs, but he was sure that it wouldn't happen. He had finally fallen into a restless sleep for some hours.

Moriarty had arranged for him to be here for a good reason, he had a game to play, so this was just the beginning. The temperature was low enough to make him shiver to his bones, but it could not be fatal, because letting him die here would not be enough for Moriarty. What fun would he get from it?

Suddenly, the lights turned on. He had to close his eyes; bright lights hurt after so many dark hours. The door to his cell was so solid that any revealing footsteps or other voices weren´t possible to hear through it. The key was turned in the lock, as someone opened the door.

"Morning!" Dick greeted Sherlock merrily, as if he had a reason for that. At least he seemed to have been sleeping well and had eaten a good breakfast. _Eating and sleeping are overvalued_, thought Sherlock stubbornly. What other choices had _they_ left him than an attitude problem? He noticed that _they _didn´t bring anything with them.

"You look dirty. Shouldn't you clean yourself?" The thinner man smirked. "You should really take better care of yourself, psycho. But don´t worry, we're so good-hearted; we'll help you to a shower to clean yourself."

_To a shower?_

"It's not necessary."

"That was an order. Prisoners have to be hygienic. And don´t you want to drink?"

_What do they mean by this?_

"Are you thirsty, then?"

"Yes."

"You can drink in the shower."

"Move! Or do we have to drag you? Detective Inspector Dimmock is waiting to question you. You surely don´t want to disappoint him by looking so unkempt and unclean. "

Without waiting for more answers they lifted him to his feet and tugged him out. Sherlock tried to push back, but it was useless. He really didn´t want to take a shower whilst these two morons watched him. Somehow he was sure that they would. The thought bothered him a lot; he had always been a very private person.

"Why do I have to be in completely darkness?"

"Cells are dark in the night time. Or would you prefer to sleep in full light?"

_It's definitely day time then. They are trying to confuse me. _

"We are there."

They dragged him to some kind of dressing room, a very bleak one. There wasn´t a door between the dressing room and the shower room. Dick locked the door. The thinner man released Sherlock´s hands from handcuffs, but only for one reason.

"Take your clothes off. Don´t try any tricks, psycho."

"I am not going to undress in front of you. I am not going take any shower. And you have to give me my water in a glass. You cannot let me die of thirst. "

"A little shy, murderer? You weren´t so shy when you killed an old lady. You need help to undress yourself."

He didn´t move. "This is Scotland Yard. You cannot treat me this way."

"By all means, complain. We would like to see to whom you would complain? Detective Inspector Dimmock would be very pleased to hear that we are taking care of your wellbeing. That is why you need a little refreshing shower. You can drink and piss. It saves our time, you see, we have too much work to do with scum like you."

_Dimmock had his case? How was it possible?_

"I am not scum. I am the only consulting detective in the world. I am Sherlock Holmes! You are so below me. Do you want to know what I know about you? You, Dick, are a wife-beater. You beat your girlfriend regularly. She is cleverer than you are, of a higher education and she has a better salary. I have no idea what she sees in you, unless she is a masochist. You resort to violence in anything which is beyond your control. And you," Sherlock hissed to the other man, he just couldn´t stop himself anymore, "You are just a dog waiting for its opportunity. Pleasing your partner, waving your tail eagerly and waiting your turn to stab him in the back."

Dick's face reddened in fury. "Is that so, _consulting detective_? You know what I'm seeing? You're going to get on your knees. D´you understand? You will do exactly as we tell you to do. We are here for your safety. If you claim something else to anyone here, d´you think they'll listen to you? Because everybody knows that you are a lying psychopath and the killer of a sweet old lady. Everyone hates you. You don't deserve this, but we are human enough to let you shower to satisfy your pitiful needs. You do fucking exactly what I order you to do, Mr Sherlock Holmes!"

"I'm not doing it."

"Then we will help you." The thinner man assured.

Without any other words they moved towards Sherlock to undress him by force. Sherlock fought back, he punched the thinner man in the chest, kicked his groin. The man yelped and shielded his groin, when Sherlock turned to Dick, but he wasn't fast enough. Dick grabbed him by his shoulders and slammed his head into Sherlock's. He lost his balance from the power of the headbutt and dropped to the floor. Dick gripped his wrists and kept him down on the floor, ordering his still aching mate to strip Sherlock.

The thinner man overcame his hurt. He opened Sherlock´s belt, unzipped his trousers and pulled them from his legs. He took off his pants and then with Dick´s help he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt.

Finally he was naked.

"He has no reason to be shy," Dick smirked.

"No. I just thought the same thing." The thinner man petted his cheek, scraping a bruise with his finger nail. It was still sore.

_No. They should not cross the line. Don´t look me like that. _Sherlock felt their open staring like a threat. The man continued to pet him by lowering his hand on his skin. He squeezed his nipple with his fingertips.

"What if he wants to have some fun? Would it be his first time? It's hard to believe, considering how pretty he is. " The man smirked as if this were a joke. He moved his hand onwards, slipped it down onto Sherlock´s chest, down to his pubic hair, touching his manhood. Sherlock had been frozen under the touch, but this last invasion broke the spell. He let out a sharp scream. They were both too close.

_Don´t touch me. Don´t even think about it._

"I´ll give you my hand. I can help you, sexy." The thinner dragged him closer, purred to him.

"Take your dirty hands off me!" He cried out loud.

The nameless man laughed and continued fingering him, touching his testicles and penis. Sherlock tried to swallow his growing panic.

"Pity. We are in a hurry and have strict instructions to get you ready on time. But who knows? Maybe later we can find time to have fun." The thinner man smirked.

Dick forced Sherlock to his feet and pushed him suddenly towards the shower room.

"Yes, it's time to clean you. But we're not far away, don´t be afraid." Dick assured him.

* * *

><p>Finally, they had escorted him to the interrogation room. Dimmock was already waiting for them. He ordered his two underlings to stay in watch, and then turned his attention towards Sherlock.<p>

"Good morning. Have you slept well?"

"Like an innocent child," Sherlock answered, staring into Dimmock's eyes. This man was miles below him. He wouldn´t let_ him_ put him down.

Dimmock smirked at the word "innocent".

"It's delightful to hear that you are satisfied with your living quarters. "

"Except…"

"Except?"

"Handcuffs, for example... they should really be removed for a while."

"In your case, they prevent you harming yourself or others around you. You have a high probability of self-harm."

"I am not going to harm anybody. This is nonsense. My cell is icy and has no lights."

"At night. I assure you, your cell is as warm as all the others."

"I doubt that. Unless all the others are refrigerators, too. Or… there are no prisoners in other cells. Your _gorillas_ have beaten me."

"Surely not. We are very strict about the use of physical force against our…clients. Unless you have given them a reason and the guards have had to defend themselves. They have a right to defend themselves against attack."

This was useless. He twisted every word he said to him. He didn´t bother to mention Dimmock´s men's violation of his privacy or their rude comments about his appearance and morals during the "morning shower".

"I demand to see DI Lestrade. And I want a lawyer. And I have a right to make a phone call."

"DI Lestrade is on sick leave. He got a bad headache from you. We don´t have any free lawyers available now. Our phones happen to be out of order. Are you trying to accuse meof something? You are wasting your time. I can prove that there hasn´t been anything unusual or out of line in your treatment here. No one will listen your whining, Sherlock. It's my turn to get some explanations about last night." Dimmock continued. "Would you to tell me about it, in your own words?"

"You haven´t started recording." Sherlock noticed.

"Haven't I? I am _so_ sorry for forgetting. But the interrogation has started just _now_", Dimmock said. "Tell me how it went with Mrs Hudson."

"I didn't do anything to her. I didn´t even see her that evening. It was a setup by the criminal mastermind James Moriarty. We had just arrived home before the police rushed in. We had just escaped from a trap. Moriarty had lured us to the swimming pool, threatened to kill us, and he had kidnapped John Watson and dressed him in a vest of explosives. The explosives were fake anyway, because Moriarty just wanted me to shoot, so the police could find evidence on my hands from shooting. I wonder why you are not interested in that at all, although it would be useless to go to the swimming pool to try and find evidence. You wouldn´t find any, Moriarty will have cleaned the place, that is certain. Moriarty also threatened Mrs Hudson, so as soon as he vanished, we went straight to 221b Baker Street to find out if she was alright… and then…. then we found her… dead."

Sherlock seemed reluctant to say it, calling mrs Hudson as a dead, but Dimmock took this almost as a confession.

"You don´t seem to be so sure, after all, about your statement?"

"I didn´t mean that. I just couldn´t comprehend her lying there dead." Sherlock said angrily, when he noticed, how Dimmock interpreted his hesitation.

"You're just acting upset. You're bluffing. Lying doesn't bother you."

"No! I'm not acting. It bothers me, if my landlady was killed because of me, or that my friend has been kidnapped, because of Moriarty´s game. How can you say these things don´t bother me? I am not a monster!"

"We'll decide that. Or to be more specific, the court will decide. We don´t need your confession, really. The evidence against you is strong enough to convict you. The gunpowder on your hand, a smoking gun in your pocket, the victim was shot in your living room, a witness heard you argue with Mrs Hudson before the shooting and the shot itself… It doesn't matter what you say to us. You can pretend. It's not a big deal for a man like you."

Dimmock felt so sure. _This is going to work._ Just like that, Sherlock was under lock and key like Moriarty had wanted.

"For a man like me?" Sherlock repeated. "What kind of man do you think that I am – then?"

"I will ask the questions, but I'll answer you to show my good will. You have a certain reputation as a sociopath, or as a psychopath. It's a doctor's task to find out which one, as if there's a difference. But both of them are highly capable liars; manipulate people to get what they want, act without caring about the consequences and are short-tempered and violence. I could go on. All this sounds familiar, doesn´t it, Sherlock? Like looking in a mirror. I am not waiting for any confession from you, because you are not going to give me one, and your testimony is worthless. You have no conscience to tell you that you have done a horrific deed. So we need an expert."

Sherlock gasped.

"That's what you're planning. You're trying to prove I'm a psychopath. You are trying to lock me in a hell hole. That's what this is all about, why you're ´taking care of me´. I won´t let you succeed. But why? Why do have you gone to so much effort to prove me… Oh. Of course, it's not your idea. You're just a pawn. Lestrade has been removed from the case, and my case has been given to you. You agreed, because you considered this a big chance for you. Lestrade would have investigated this thoroughly, would have listened me, and would have finally noticed that I was framed." Sherlock leaned forward over the table, almost whispering. "How has it been with your career? You haven't gotten on very well, I see, although I gave the Black Lotus case as a gift. Have you already forgotten? I solved the Black Lotus case for you, and now you're not paying me back very well, I can tell you."

Dimmock had nothing to say. It was all true, but he didn´t need to be mocked by this arrogant sod. Sherlock had figured out their plan so easily. It was all too easy for him- although, it really didn´t matter. Whatever he deduced, it wouldn't help him. He could not say anything that would help him out of there.

"You have paused the recording again. You shouldn´t do that in the middle of questioning of a suspect."

"Have I? There must be a malfunction in the player. In fact, you just got mad, and broke the machine. Because of _this:" _

Dimmock showed the morning newspaper to Sherlock. There was an article about Mrs Hudson's murder. There were three clear pictures: Mrs Hudson still alive, DI Dimmock´s smirking face and the only consulting detective in the world, now hailed as a cold-blooded murderer. Sherlock stared at the pictures, as if not believing they were real.

_This was not happening to him. He was in the newspapers. After all these years solving all these crimes without getting one single mention, he was now being accused of being the murderer of a sweet old lady in the morning paper. _

"Lestrade wouldn´t ever accept this. He promised to keep it out of the press."

"There is little Lestrade knows or can do about your case, Sherlock. Your case is mine."

"You are going to get a rocketing rise for your career, you slimy eel."

"Are you calling me names? Are you going to become violent?" Dimmock smiled. "It's a pity that you smashed the record player."

"The machine is working fine. "

Dimmock gave a signal for his guards. Dick took the machine and threw it against the wall. It broke into pieces.

"No, it doesn´t. You just smashed it. The guards have witnessed how after you saw the article, you lost your control and threw the machine at the wall. Then we were forced to calm you down and brought you back to your cell. You are short-tempered and belligerent. We will add this to the report about my estimation of your situation, which a psychiatrist _and_ the court get from me. I don´t think that it would be a problem to get the verdict, considering your state of mind. Guards, calm him."

Dick moved quickly, considering how big a man he was. Sherlock didn´t have time to react before the attacker lifted him up from his chair and threw him violently towards the wall. His head slammed against the wall and he slumped to the floor. Sherlock´s head was dizzy from the hit but he tried to rise, until the thinner man started aimed a couple of kicks to his ribcage, which made him slump back to the floor. He heard Dimmock´s voice saying:

"That's enough, help him back to his cell. Our conversation is over."

When he was dragged from the room, Sally Donovan happened to be outside. It

* * *

><p>might have been a coincidence, it might not, but there she was- facing two unknown men who kept Sherlock tight in their grip, and she noticed the bruises on his face. Sherlock turned his face away from her; he didn't need her to taunt him when he had been treated like this. But Sally didn´t want to taunt him.<p>

"Hello, men, I haven´t seen you before," she started, "I am Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"We've just transferred here. We help DI Dimmock."

"More transfers? Don´t we have enough staff here already? Hey, freak, have you been in a fight?" She spoke to Sherlock, but stared at his escorts.

"That's not your business." Sherlock answered, looking away, trying to stay balanced. The hit to his head had awoken a headache. He felt sick. "I hit only the door."

"You even made doors mad, freak."

"_You_ should know that."

"He got mad and became violent. We had to stop him." The thinner man explained helpfully.

"Really? Did he?" Sally raised her eyebrows, wondering about the bruises and the wound on his face. He seemed to have difficulty even staying on his feet.

"Yeah. He smashed the recording machine."

"Enough. We have to go now." Dick interrupted impatiently.

_More news for Lestrade_, Sally thought, when the men disappeared.

* * *

><p>DI Dimmock prepared the final documents about Sherlock Holmes´ interrogation for the judge, who would advocate a psychiatric evaluation of Sherlock before his trial. There was no doubt in his mind that they would not get permission. A statement from a psychiatrist- who worked for Moriarty- and an old psychiatric statement in his teenage years would be enough to send him inside for the rest of his life. Dimmock read the old diagnosis from Sherlock´s youth: <em>a high-functioning sociopath<em>. Wrongly or rightly evaluated, it was a nice testimony for the judge.

Dimmock prepared the paperwork for the rest of the afternoon, until finally they were ready to send forward. Although the death had not been a planned murder, considering the suspect´s mental state and history, he was justified in calling it a murder, so seriously dangerous the suspect was. He underlined that the suspect was suspicious, making the accusation that he had been treated wrongly, when they had just taken care of his wellbeing. He was short-tempered, violent and a compulsive liar. He denied frantically that he was guilty of any crime; instead he had made up his own story of what had happened, and fervently denied any evidence to the contrary. He and his flatmate John Watson continued talking about a taxi which had driven them to their home, but he didn´t believe that the taxi driver existed either. Anyway, the evidence against the suspect was so strong that his confession wasn't necessary. He had a history of a drug addict and had an unstable personality.

Because he couldn´t control his anger, he'd smashed the record machine and tried to attack Dimmock, and the policemen were forced to calm him. It might be that because he had fought so furiously back, he'd gotten some minor bruises himself. They had to make sure that he was not able to harm others or himself in the future. Now DI Dimmock was satisfied. This would explain Sherlock´s injuries, and his ranting wouldn´t get too much attention.

His report was ready to send forward.


End file.
